


Ebb and Flow

by Sincerelywithlove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Nouis, ebb and flow, larry stylinson - Freeform, sincerelywithlove, thatkaitykid, ziall, ziam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sincerelywithlove/pseuds/Sincerelywithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a drifter and Harry's family owns the Luxtenshire inn. Louis can't keep his feet on the same ground for more than a few days at a time, more or less feel for someone other than himself. Harry wants to change that.</p>
<p>Zayn lives with his best friend Liam at the Luxtenshire Inn while they try to make it in the music business, they might drink too much on occasion but love each other nonetheless. Niall is a drug addict but is loved by Harry's family even when he doesn't pay his rent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ebb and Flow

_**Louis** _

_November 20th_

He doesn't really remember when he started this or why he began it in the first place. All he remembers is that this is how he lives and that this is just enough for him. He knows he felt things at one point or another, felt more than just this need to never keep his feet on the same ground for more than a few days at a time. He knows that this maybe isn't the best way to live, that it doesn't really give him the rush that he might have thought it would at the beginning, but this is all he knows. 

He thinks that perhaps his weathered seams are getting a little weaker, that it might be time at the young age of twenty to properly root himself into the earth somewhere, drop a pin on the world's map and call it his own. He thinks he can't, knows that he can't because some people are meant for that kind of life. The ones with girlfriends, careers, and  _real_  lives, but he isn't one of those people. As far as he remembers, he never was. He thinks that maybe he knows who he could blame for that but aside from pronouns and respective roles, he couldn't place a name on any specific face. So in the end, he thinks he can only blame himself and he's come to the fact that maybe he's okay with that.

So he keeps moving, never letting the tides of life bring anyone too close to him, preferring to keep people as single serving friends. He remembers laughing the first time a girl had mentioned the idea to him. She had told him that he didn't connect well with anyone. He remembers having connected well with her, or at least he thought he had. He couldn't remember why though, or even what color her hair was, more or less her purpose in his life. He figures that it probably wasn't that important of a role, but he does know that she wasn't just a single serving feature. She had been around for years, maybe even a good portion of his youth, but she, just like many others, was merely a figment of the things he couldn't bring back into focus. 

He tries to tighten the scarf around his neck as he walks along the highway, ignoring the fraying edges that split further at his attempts. He would have to find a way to get another or surely this winter might be the end of him. He wonders if thinking that the end wouldn't be so terrible is an unhealthy thing to think. Then, he isn't sure when the last time healthy even described him, or if it even ever did. 

An eighteen wheeled delivery truck passes him by, nearly missing his slender frame in the night. He can't really count how many times that he's almost been hit, or how many times he  _wished_  he had been. He thinks that maybe it's just the unfortunate change in seasons that has him thinking so lowly. Being honest with himself, he admits that he knows that it's just reason creeping into the edges of his mind. He knows that people like him don't usually last very long and that he's probably okay with that. 

It's mid-November, and if the temperature isn't any proper tell then he's sure that the ice threatening the soles of his shoes is enough warning that he needs to find a place for the night. So, he walks, walks until he's sure that snow crystals are forming on the curves of his breath and he's catching faint glimpses of candle like streetlamps in the fog down the road. He grips blindly at the strap across his chest, silently acknowledging that he hasn't lost his bag among the day's trek, as he wanders closer. 

He thinks the lights are nice,  _lux aeterna_  amongst the seemingly endless dark. He absently wonders if they stay on from dusk til dawn, guiding the lost to their town when they can't find their way. A sign causes him to step into the road for a moment before continuing on his iced over path. He vaguely notices that it reads  _Presteigne_ with a population that he thinks is somewhere barely in the thousands.

The lights, he realizes, are construction lamps lighting up the building site of a large warehouse looking structure. The cement leading to the building is littered with bricks, sand, and what he thinks is a mound of rocks.  _To make more cement,_ he thinks. He mentally catalogues the placement of the building and the lack of workers, if he couldn't find a cheap inn or hotel then he would be back for the night. It certainly wouldn't be the worst place that he's ever slept. 

With the glow of the lights he makes out the jagged edges of cedar trees. He vaguely remembers seeing them on the way here, maybe earlier in the day lining the browning fields. 

An ache runs from the arch of his right foot to his hip, and he tries not to think about why that pain is there because that's one thing he can't seem to forget. So, he decides to wonder about how much easier this drift would have been if people still stopped to pick up drifters. 

He thinks that maybe this town isn't really a town at all, but maybe a scattering of buildings without real purpose. There are a few other dimly lit buildings after the warehouse and he's beginning to limp again. He tries not to entertain the thought that he may not make it much further than this layer of trees and that frightening home with a porch much like the one he saw in the paper a few weeks prior under the heading  _Thirteen Bodies Found in Wood Home_. Despite himself, he wonders if they went easily and if he might meet the same ending somehow. 

When he stumbles into the building's sign held up by a two chain links and a wood post, he's thinking about how he's sure that some human centipede was made with a drifter in a movie he saw in passing. The sign reads  _Luxtenshire Inn_ in golden script. He turns toward the path that leads to the shadowed sight of the Inn. In the dim lighting he can make out the vertically striped exterior of the building, wood probably, white against brown. There is a little light shining through some of the lower windows, the curtains barely drawn to shield the guests from the outside world, and there are two small closed flame lamps illuminating the entrance door where a  _Welcome_ sign is displayed against the wood. 

He finds that the pain in his leg has subsided for the moment as he hobbles toward the entrance. The wood is soft beneath his touch as his pulls the door open quietly to the tune of a tinkling bell. The room he enters warms his skin with gently glowing bulbs. A few laminate tables are scattered about the room, accompanied by chairs and a quiet atmosphere. 

"Need a room for the night?" a soft voice drags his attention away from the tables and lights. There's a dainty woman standing behind a bar counter, her dark brown hair tied back in a low ponytail. She's got bright blue eyes and even though it's well passed the average bedtime, he can hardly see the tiring lines beneath them.  _She looks young,_ he thinks. 

He nods softly, a weary smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

She smiles at him, all warm and kind, as she pulls out a binder from beneath the counter along with a pen. "Name?" she asks.

"Louis," he responds softly, his voice is raw from the night and he's sure that he hasn't had a glass of water since the night before in Oxford. 

She looks up after a moment of his silence, "Last name, Louis?"

He pauses, considering for a moment that he should probably just make something up for her because in the end it wouldn't matter all that much. "I don't know," is his final response.

She eyes him for a while, her expression curious and tired. "Not applicable then," she smiles at him before looking over the rest of the binder in front of her. "How many guests with you tonight then Louis?"

His shoulders relax among the warm air of the room, admiring the light of the fire by the bar counter that he hadn't noticed before. "Just me."

"Is a twin bed alright for you? We only have the loft available tonight," she responds after a moment.

He wouldn't mind sleeping by the fire. He considers telling her as much but refrains with a small nod of his head. 

"£85 for the night then, how will you be paying?" she asks after marking something in the binder.

He stiffens because he had forgotten, lost the thought that he would actually need money for this. Warm beds came with a price. He thinks he doesn't want to dwell on that anymore. He tugs his bag around to the front of him, and digs through the nearly empty interior pulling a few crumpled notes from the bottom. "I... I've got £10..." he scrubs a hand over his face sourly. "I'm sorry for the trouble ma'am. If I could just have a glass of water, I'll get going."

She watches him for a moment, and Louis realizes that the name tag pinned to her blouse reads  _Anne._ Her hand lifts from where it rests on the counter top and extends in his direction, "I misspoke £5 for the night £10 for two if you'll help me with a few things."

His fingers shake numbly around his grip on the bills as he looks up to meet her eyes. He considers silently what  _a few things_ might actually mean and wonders if she is  _that_ kind of person. He weighs the warmth of a bed to the thought he hadn't wanted to dwell on earlier. 

"The garden is being drowned in this ice and snow, and the fence is falling under the weight of it," she continues. "I could use some help and you look like you could use some sleep," she finishes as she sets her pen down and tugs a glass out from beneath the counter. Ice cubes clink against the glass just before she pours water into it. 

He finds that his feet move before he can respond as he sits at the one of the bar stools. "Thank you," he replies hoarsely as he sets the bills down in front of her.

She,  _Anne_ , he reminds himself, takes them with a warm smile as she sets the glass in his hand and tucks her binder beneath the counter. Her hand comes back into his view with a silver cast key on the end of a black and white striped tassel, "We serve breakfast at 09:00 in the morning-"

Louis' shaking his head before she can continue, because he shouldn't be served breakfast. That's for properly paying customers and he certainly isn't one no matter how much work he does tomorrow or the day after.

"Pancakes, eggs, and bacon made by my son," she continues firmly with a pat to his hand. "My daughter runs by the rooms a quarter till nine to wake everyone up, so please don't be late. If you want to take that water to your room, I can show you up."

He watches her, scrutinizing her expression and trying to find the crack in this facade that she has. She's surely pulling his leg, and not his good one either.

Anne waits for a moment, watching him with just as much intent. "Come on then," she urges as she walks around the bar counter and starts toward the staircase without looking to see if he follows.

The glass scrapes against the counter as he picks it up and slides off the bar stool, quickening his pace as he follows after her.  The wooden steps creak under their feet as they climb up to the second floor and then meander down the long hallway toward another set of stairs. There are five doors on the left of the hall and three on the right. As the reach the stair case, he sees that there is another hallway lined similarly with doors to the left and a small hallway on the right with only two doors. They climb the final stairs and come upon a set of three doors. Anne approaches the farthest on the right. 

"Far left is the honeymoon suite," she begins as she sticks the key in the lock. "Middle is just a linen closet and this is, well this is your loft," she smiles at him as she opens the door and flips on a light. 

The room has an angled roof, the wooden beams showing the shape of the outer roof along with white walls and a gentle glow of a single overhead light. It isn't a very big room, just large enough for the twin bed that sits against the far wall. There's a window by the bed, Louis realizes, and the white and brown curtains are pulled to block out any morning light. He thinks that the door beside the room's entrance might be a bathroom. 

"Good?" she asks after a moment.

He looks over at her in confusion. She had practically handed him something he hasn't had in months and she's asking if it was  _Good?_ So he nods rapidly as if it's the strangest thing he's ever heard. 

"Enjoy your stay then," Anne grins. "Breakfast at nine," she reminds as she turns and pulls the door shut behind her. 

He wanders over to the bed then, running his fingertips delicately over the bedspread barely noticing that the fabric matches the drapes. With a little force he presses down on the mattress, feeling the cushion beneath his palms. He tries to think about the last time that he might have slept in a bed like this but comes up empty. 

After a moment, he leans away from the bed and pulls his messenger bag over his head to set it on the floor by a small wooden night stand. He sheds the tan peacoat that he pilfered near the beginning of the cold season and walks quietly over to the door beside the entrance. The golden door knob creaks a little beneath his hand as he turns it and peers inside. There's a small square shower in the corner with a sink and toilet against the opposite wall. He can't run to the shower fast enough.

He strips down, leaving a trail of clothing from the door to the shower, and turns on the spray. He curls himself inside the small space and lets the water warm up against his skin, cool to sweltering. He's sure that his skin might be paler than he previously thought it was under all of the dirt and grime. He scrubs at his skin with a previously packaged bar of soap before pouring half of the bottle of shampoo into his hair. He thinks that it might have been lilac-scented but he doesn't care. 

He isn't sure how long he stays in the shower, but the water has run cold by the time that he finally emerges with prunes creasing his fingers and toes. He dabs at himself with a towel before running it over his hair and then wrapping it around his waist. With warm feet against cool wood flooring, he shuts off the bathroom light and closes the door behind him. Wandering over to his bag, he pulls out his spare pair of boxers. He hangs his towel on one of the bed posts and pulls his boxers up on his hips before slipping beneath the bedspread. 

Before sleep pulls him under that night, he briefly wonders if he's really somewhere else.  _Maybe a ditch,_ he thinks as his eyes fall shut. When the darkness closes, he dreams of things that he pretends to not remember, and faces he avoids placing names with.

**Translations:**  
lumière -- light (french)  
lux aeterna -- eternal light (latin) 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new fic for me, although not my first, and it is written in a different style than I'm used to. SO, please let me know what you think! Much love xx


End file.
